


thought, we know, is decadent

by therestisdetail



Series: the conversation of prayers about to be said [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: feelings about angel bros, not van gogh but it'll do, tonight's forecast is ambiguously gen with a chance of angelcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-18
Updated: 2012-06-18
Packaged: 2017-11-08 00:43:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestisdetail/pseuds/therestisdetail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These times might not have purpose, but they are intended (the nazca lines, on the other hand, are an accident).</p>
            </blockquote>





	thought, we know, is decadent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littleredcup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleredcup/gifts).



 

It's a remarkable thing, these collections of lines and curves, these splotches of colour. They bear no resemblance to what inspires them, except through the eyes and minds of the ones that make them; in these shapes they can see layered shadow, taste rain in the air, feel fur under their fingers. The humans draw in scraped marks and ochre on cave walls, and tell stories.   
  
Castiel and Balthazar draw in fire, across deserts, and tell their own private jokes.   
  
Shed of vessels and shed of the veils they hide behind for the sake of mankind's delicacy, they burn bright and race all the faster to feel the wind. It's an indulgence, to stretch their wings to catch the sun. Sometimes Castiel simply chases Balthazar, both of them darting and diving and colliding when they get to close, and other times one or the other will drop low and scorch the ground they pass over. It's not a gentle flame, that they burn with, which is why they confine themselves to the red centre of the southern continent, or the dry sands of what will, one day, be south america and the middle east. There is life there, of course, but it is slight and it is hardy, so they are not careful.   
  
Careening along the sides of a canyon, they arch upwards in unison, to soar and slow and view their handiwork.   
  
"Is it a- " Castiel twitches his wings and tilts for a better look. "Is it a deformed horse, brother?"  
  
Balthazar pounces, quivering with faux-anger. "Do not mock me," he says, and they tumble for a moment in mid-air, "when you are so incapable of maintaining a straight line."  
  
Below, enochian blessings trail off to nothing where Balthazar decided to tug at Castiel's wing, and here there is a spider, and here a monkey, burned into the soil without rhyme or reason. It's a playful imitation, an admiring one. The humans draw pictures simply for the sake of the act itself; Castiel has no words for how wondrous that is.   
  
"Ah," Balthazar says when Castiel stills. "Is this where you tell me about how we have taken more than enough time here?"  
  
Castiel blinks thoughtfully. "No," he says, after a while. "I think that might be tomorrow."  
  
Balthazar's delight is visible, it shines, and he jostles Castiel fondly as he turns back to their lines in the earth. "What would the clever little apes think?" he asks, "If they came close enough, climbed high enough on the hills and looked across and saw."  
  
Castiel isn't sure, but isn't concerned either. "These will not last that long," he says, without regret. "There will be wind and there will be rain and they'll pass." Balthazar gestures his agreement, though he seems more wistful.   
  
If not for certain valleys on the southern coast of Peru, they would have been entirely right.

 


End file.
